The Side Unseen

It wasn't often the Zo felt this way. For the past 19 years she had been a mother first, and everything was a far off second. From the moment she knew no one would help her, she had made her life about her son and she would never regret it. Was she the best mother out there? Her kid liked to say that no one held a candle to her, but she was very aware of her flaws. What matter was that she did everything she could to give her son the life he deserved, even if it meant that her life was harder for it. So to end up in a situation where she felt young and the spotlight was on her, that was a very knew feeling. How had she come to this moment? Well, that would take explaining. 

Zohara D'Ambrose was the proud mother of a werewolf son, though she was not one herself. No, she had been born a witch, in a long line of gifted people. When her family turned their back on her, she sought out the help of other werewolves. Eventually that lead them to the pack they lived with today. A group of wolves that understood pack was just another word for family. It was with one of these pack members that she begun to feel her age again. Not some rundown mom that didn't know what 'Yeet' meant. But a young woman in her thirties who still had life inside of her. Ready to take on the world. 

The man who made her feel this way was Roan Lochlann. He had showed up on a Harley, all leather and sass. The type of bad boy that you didn't bring home to dinner. And yet, there was something deeper there. It was never the bad boy edge that drew her in, it was what lay beneath that got Zo interested. He was funny and wild, but there was a deep passion and wisdom underneath the surface. It wasn't long before he asked her out and for once in her life, she said yes without thinking about how it would affect her kid. He was grown now and while she wasn't exactly looking to re-enter the dating world, it wasn't like she had to worry about her son growing attached. He had taken after her when holding everyone at a distance. 

Their date had started off sweet and rather innocent. He picked her up, bringing some flowers with him. She had dressed in an actual dress, hair down and make up lighter than normal. He had taken her to the movies to see the newest Marvel superheo movie. It was like being 16 again. Only this time she didn't have to worry about the consequences. She had lived that out already. Should anything happen now, she was more than prepared. So with that fear gone, she got to be a girl again. Sipping a soda and stealing popcorn from her date. Sharing a twizzler here or a raisinette  there. Nothing could be more innocent. 

They left the movie, laughing and talking about members of the pack and what superhero they were most like. The Alpha was their Captain America. He took her to dinner, which had to be the first dinner where she hadn't cooked a single things in many years. The weight of responsibility was gone and she was able to just relax. Getting to know this side of herself again that had been lost to her son, her job and responsibilities. She hadn't realized just how much of herself she had lost to it all until she had to chance to rediscover it. And boy was it ever fun. Roan was charming and she, she was alot more fun than she remembered. Quick with her wit, sassy as all get out and free with her laughter. 

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Entry:

Locke stared down at the man with a blank expression belying the inquisitiveness of a head cocked lightly to one side.  He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.  Locke had all the time he needed. 

In fact, he didn’t need much time at all.  He began to move forward and paused, somewhat surprised at the slight sting at his arm.  He reached out, noting the cut in his sleeve, pushed it back and there it was.  A cut in his arm.  No, not a cut.  A cut was an exaggeration. Locke’s eyes remained cold, but his mouth twisted into an odd little smile as he released a laugh.  Locke’s arm barely bled, but the point was just that it was bleeding at all, scratched at all.  A shame really what would now need to happen.  He was, after all, untouchable. 

This very untouchability was what made it so foolish for the boy to try and attack him.  He was still the King’s Dagger and even if he weren’t, he was still a man that needed no title to scare people away.  Some of them at least.  The rest ended up like this one would, crippled or dead.  Crippled than dead.  Crippled and dead.  Sometimes lessons could be learned and sometimes they could not.  Locke assumed that this one had a very good reason.  He assumed he was in the right and Locke was in the wrong.  Maybe Locke had killed a parent or two.  Maybe he was acting on behest of his lord.  He was trained, no doubt about that, but Locke had stopped listening after the first shout.  Well that and a punch to the throat tended to put a damper on any vengeance-filled speeches. 

Locke ran his finger against the faint line of blood, barely a drop.  Maybe two.  He lifted it to his lips, just a taste.  He waited a moment.  Then a moment more.  No tingling on his lips.  No bitterness on his tongue.  Just metallic and ordinary.  Yes, ordinary for all that the king, for all that those half-blooded relations thought they bore lightning in their blood.  Godhood was as much an act as anything and Locke knew how to run that play too.   The value of it even as it disgusted him.  Locke had never wanted such a connection or value to his blood.    

His eyes shifted to the prone figure on the floor.  There was promise in front of him in the form of the boy.  No, not a man after all.  He could see that now.  The thought should bring him the guilt that went along with ending a young life, but it didn’t.  Feelings such as guilt tended to be observational rather than emotional.  Killing is wrong.  You should feel bad.  Blah blah blah. 

Sandy-hair and long limbs.  There’d been a grace to them, but not enough.  He couldn’t have been much older than the Brat.  Could the Brat have cut him?  Perhaps, perhaps not.  He’d try some day.  The sandy-haired boy on the floor… never again. 

No numbness on the lips.  Shame. 

The boy was in an unfortunate position.  A little too good, but not good enough.  The worst died too quickly and the best constantly had to watch their backs because everyone wanted to be the best.  One might assume that meant it was worst to be the best and the worst, but this simply wasn’t true.  It was the ones in the middle.  Mediocrity.  Failing at failing.  If not for the cut, he might have let him go without his hand. 

He was kind like that. 

Locke knew very well it wasn’t mediocrity.

Too bad.

So sad.     

”You should have poisoned the blade,” Locke told him, a knife now in his own hand as he leaned over the boy.  He did him the courtesy of not dragging it out.

The boy had cut him, after all. 

No games, though, and Locke enjoyed his games. 

A courtesy.

He enjoyed the blood too and the other colors of violence.  So much so that he left the body on the street for everyone to enjoy as much. 

Not Desdemona, though.  She couldn’t see it, but she could smell it and she always knew when she ran her hands across blood-soaked skin that that was what it was.   He always found it strange, how she had known.  How a blind woman could see more of him than anyone at times. 

 She probably saw through the lies he was forced to make too.  No, not forced, but he couldn’t have her leaving him.  He didn’t know if he’d be able to let her do that.  He wondered that too sometimes.  Desdemona deserved better than blood in a kiss.    

So, instead, a dunk in the ocean and a change of clothes.  Let the salt of his lips be from the sea instead of blood.  His own or the boy’s.  Presentable?  Yes.  She heard his footsteps when so few did.  Truth was, he made them a little louder so she’d know he was there.  Only a little, though, in case someone else was there.  Even away from Cthonos, the paranoia was always going to be there. 

A soft smile that the woman couldn’t see.  A very different sort of weakness.  Maybe she could hear it in Locke’s voice or feel it in his touch as he walked into the little cottage. 

 “I missed you,” he told her as he slid his arms between hers and rested his chin on her shoulder, not minding that it meant crouching a little.  His hands automatically slid to her stomach.  What should have been a source of concern, fear was the opposite.  Too soon, yet, though.  Too soon for any answering knocks. 

Desdemona laughed.  ”You saw me this morning.”  Locke would bottle her laugh if he could and take it with him when he went to sea.  Open it when he could hear his mother’s lullabies beneath the waves and the two would mix and what a sound that would be.      

He had no denial, just that lips eventually found his way to hers.  If she tasted blood on them, she said nothing and if he died, he didn’t think he’d mind.